The Boston Globe, June 12th, 1992
One day last month during which the mercury struggled toward the 50-degree plateau and the sun struggled to pierce the overhanging layers of cold marine gauze, one of life's defining moments occurred. While I was slightly depressed about the weather and lost in worry about the nearly total and complete victory of weeds and crabgrass over my lawn, there rained down from the sky -- no, not sleet, but the cacophonous cry of a flock of Canada geese. Low over the trees they flew, huge and majestic, silhouetted against the silvery light. Wild geese, I thought, on the final leg of their heroic migrat...
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